Catlow (1963) (11 page)

He went up to the animal. A man lay slumped upon its back, tied in place crudely but efficiently. Ben led the horse to his camp and, having untied the knots, he lifted the wounded man from the saddle.

He was a Mexican officer in uniform, shot in the body and the leg. Hesitating only briefly at taking the risk, Ben dismissed it as one that must be taken, and put together a small fire. He built it close against the cliff and under a smoke tree where the rising smoke would be spread out and dissipated by even that sparse foliage--if such it could be called.

There was little water in his canteen, but he put a part of it on to boil; then he slipped off the wounded man's coat and split his pants leg. The bullet in the body had gone through flesh above the hip and had bled badly. The bullet hole in the leg seemed to have touched no bone, but the wounded man had lost blood there too.

When the water was hot, Ben bathed the wounds and bound them up with the matadura herb. He had no powder, nor was it possible to prepare any, but he used the herb just as he had found it.

When he had finished dawn had come, and he sat back on the ground and looked around him.

He had to have water, and water must be close by, for he doubted if the roan would have stopped for any other reason. He glanced up at the rock wall. There could be a rock tank up there, a tinaja, as the Mexicans called it, a natural hollow where water from the scarce rains might be found.

He got to his feet. And then for the first time he had a good look at the horse the man had been riding.

It was Miller's horse.

Chapter
Twelve.

The young officer lay still, but his breathing seemed less ragged and harsh. He was a handsome man, but now, in the early light, he looked pale, drained of blood by his wounds.

Ben knew that the wounded man would awaken to a raging thirst, and there was scarcely a cup of water remaining in Ben's canteen. Under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but leave him and go in search of water.

Taking up his rifle and canteen, he walked northward along the wall of rock. It was a sheer wall for at least forty feet up, then it seemed to break back and rise up farther, jagged and serrated. It was perhaps two hundred feet above the desert floor at its highest, which was to the south of him. If there was any way to get up into those rocks, it must be from the end, or from the other side.

The ridge was all of three hundred yards long. When he reached the end of it, it appeared to be no more than a third of that in width, but there was plenty of room up there for a tank. However, knowing such places as he did, Ben Cowan knew that without some clue he might die of thirst trying to find the water.

He studied the sand for animal tracks, but found none. A bee flew past, pointing away on a straight line of flight into the rocks, and he followed, taking a sight on a pinnacle of rock. He lost the bee, but went on for several yards in the direction of its flight, and then stopped.

The sun would soon be fully up, and the pale light of morning lay all about. Here and there were shadows among the rocks of the ridge. Glancing back toward camp, he could see the horses with their heads turned toward him, watching him. After a moment, they returned to their cropping of the dusty brown grass or brush.

Another bee passed, but he lost it. He walked on up among the rocks and found the track of a coyote or desert fox ... It was smudged somewhat and he could not make out which it was. The animal had gone on up into the rocks, and Ben scrambled over the rocks and climbed higher.

By the time he was well up into the rocks the sun was up and already hot. He climbed a shoulder of granite and studied the surroundings with care. He saw nothing green, nothing to indicate water.

The rocks about him were dull red, except off to the left where an upthrust of granite partly blocked his view. Sand had blown into the crevices, but as he climbed there was less of this. Brush grew here and there, sparse gray, unlikely-looking stuff that promised nothing. Here he must depend on chance, on what he knew about rock tanks, and what the wild life, if any, indicated.

He clambered on. Sweat trickled down his face, the empty canteen battered against the rocks. He stopped again, his gaze sweeping the surrounding country. In every direction there was desert ... greasewood, cactus. His searching eyes found nothing to promise water.

Suddenly a bee went past him, so swiftly that he lost it instantly. He started on again, but where he climbed there was no easy way, no game trail, no way found by Indians. The coyote whose tracks he had seen earlier had not come this way; it must have turned off through some crevice or around some boulder.

He was high above the desert now. Searching for a way to proceed, he saw a flat-topped boulder whose edge he could reach with his fingers. Being a cautious man, he picked up a pebble and flipped it up. If a snake was lying there, it would surely be aroused and rattle. He had no desire to pull himself over that edge and come face to face with a rattler. He flipped another pebble, but nothing happened.

He pulled himself up and looked over a maze of dark rocks, smooth with the varnish of the desert. He got to his feet and looked back down the way he had come.

The picketed horses fed on the brush, but the wounded man was too close to the rock face to be seen from here. Ben climbed a little way over the rocks and suddenly, in a small patch of blown sand, he saw the edge of a track ... a porcupine track. From the rocks ahead, a bird flew up.

Turning that way, he found himself on a narrow path, scarcely wide enough to place one foot ahead of the other between the rocks. Ahead, a huge boulder blocked the view, but when he rounded it he saw a deep, dark pool of water.

Lifting his eyes, he saw another pool, slightly higher and just beyond it. Here the run-off from the highest part of the rocks was caught in the natural basins and held there.

The upper pool, which was the easier to reach, was half-shadowed by an overhang of rock. The water was cold, very cold, and sweet. He drank, then drank again and filled his canteen.

He looked down at the lower pool. Bees clustered around it, and he saw at the edge the droppings of a deer or mountain sheep--at this distance he could not make out which.

Following the path back, he found a comparatively easy route, and was quickly down to the desert floor.

The horses whinnied as he approached. The wounded man was conscious, and stared wildly at Ben as he approached.

"What happened?" he asked in Spanish. "Who are you?"

Ben Cowan squatted on his heels, and offered the wounded man a drink. Then he told him, as briefly as possible, what the situation was. "First off," he said finally, "I've got to get those horses to water or they'll break loose and go by themselves."

The wounded Mexican looked up at him. "Have you a gun? If you can spare me one, I'll be all right." He paused. "You know, of course, that this is Apache country?"

"I know."

"Each minute you stay with me you risk your life, senor."

Ben Cowan got his spare Colt from the saddlebag. "Take this," he said, "but don't shoot unless you have to. I'll be keeping a lookout from up above."

When he returned from watering the horses, the Mexican had managed to move and had dragged his bed deeper into the narrowing shadow of the cliff.

"Now you tell me," Cowan said to him, "where you got that horse."

Captain Diego Martinez de Recalde shrugged. "We were riding from Fronteras to Magdalena," he explained, "and as I was going home to Guadalajara, I took with me my very special horse. I was trying his paces some distance from the column when I thought I saw a horse standing alone on the desert.

"I rode closer to see ... something hit me and I fell, hearing the shot as I struck the ground. A man rode up to me, shot at me again, and I remember nothing more."

"He shot you for your horse," Cowan said. "His own wasn't much good and was about played out."

"You know him, senor?"

"I know him ... he's one of the reasons I am in Mexico. If I can arrange to take him here, I would like to take him back with me."

Recalde smiled, somewhat grimly. "You shall have every assistance, senor. I promise it. However," he added, "if he rides that horse where any of my command see him, I fear you shall not have much to take back."

After Ben had dressed the wound again, he brought up the subject of travel. Captain Recalde agreed with him at once. Difficult, even dangerous as it might be for Recalde to travel, to remain where he was would be even more dangerous. And by this time his soldiers would be searching for him.

Ben Cowan helped Recalde into the saddle and mounted up. There was no longer any question of attempting to trail either Miller or Catlow. Now he must get the wounded man to his own column of soldiers, marching southward, and then he could ride with them into Hermosillo, or at least to Magdalena.

Recalde was gripping the pommel with both hands. "It is not a way to ride, senor," he said, "but--"

"You stay in that saddle any way you can," Ben responded, "and don't worry about how."

The desert was like an oven. Above them in the brassy sky there floated an enormous sun, a sun that seemed to encompass the entire heavens. Steadily they rode southward, south by east, hoping to come upon the trail.

Their walking horses plodded through the sand interminably; their slow advance was broken only by the moments when they stopped for Recalde to drink. The sun was high above, and the desert all around them danced with heat waves. Ben's clothes were stiff with dust and sweat, and sweat trickled down his spine and down his chest under his shirt.

His rifle barrel he sheathed, for it became too hot to hold. White dust rose from the desert, a soft white dust that clung and choked. The wounded man rode with head bowed, his fingers clinging to the pommel, his body swaying loosely with the movements of the horse.

The afternoon came; the brassy sun still hung in the sky. The day seemed to go on forever. Once Recalde's horse stumbled, and seemed about to fall. They pushed on ... and then they came upon the trail. It was empty of life.

Tracks were there, tracks of wagons and of mounted men, tracks several hours old. They had, evidently, reached the trail some distance behind the column ... at this point the Captain's disappearance would not yet have been discovered.

Recalde's horse stumbled again, and had Cowan not thrown out a quick arm, the Captain would have fallen. The horse stood, legs spread, head hanging.

Alone, without a rider, the horse might make it through. Mounted, neither the horse nor the wounded man could make it.

Ben Cowan swung down and helped Recalde, who was no longer aware of his surroundings, into his own saddle. Leaving the other horse behind, he started off, leading his roan.

Slowly, the long day waned. Shadows began to gather behind the shrubs and the rocks here and there along the trail. Ahead of them there seemed to be a small range of mountains, or a ridge of rocks.

Ben Cowan thought no more of time, he thought only of coolness, of shadow, of night, of water. What remained in the canteen, the wounded man would need.

They were stupid with heat and weariness, and they did not hear the hoofbeats muffled by dust. The four riders came upon them suddenly, no less surprised than Cowan; until that moment desert growth had masked their coming.

Four Apaches ... not over sixty feet away.

Ben Cowan saw them and drew. He did not think, for he was at that moment beyond thought. This was danger, and his life had been geared to danger. He drew, and the speed of his hand was his margin of safety. The gun cleared his holster and the bullet ripped into the chest of the nearest Indian.

Completely surprised, the others broke for shelter, and Ben Cowan jerked the horse behind the nearby rocks. Reaching up, he took Recalde bodily from the saddle just as a bullet cut a notch in the cantle.

He dropped Recalde and swung the muzzle of his pistol, blasting into the nearest bit of brush. Leaping away from Recalde, he crouched down behind the clustering rocks, and snapped a shot at a brown arm--and missed.

Bullets flaked rock from near his head. One man was there ... two would be circling him, and he had no defense from behind.

Then a bullet killed the roan. The horse lunged forward and fell, and Ben Cowan swore bitterly, for that had been a good horse, perhaps the best horse he had ever owned.

Ben turned at the shot, and was in time to see the Apache duck to change positions, and this time he did not miss. The Apache stumbled and plunged to his face in the sand, and Ben Cowan put another bullet into him as he hit the ground.

Rock chips stung his face. He glanced toward Recalde. The Mexican had come out of it; feebly he was trying to get at the Colt in his waistband. Dampness stained his coat and shirt ... he was bleeding again.

There were no more shots. The Apaches knew night was coming, and they knew he wasn't going anywhere without a horse. They could wait ... and he shot too well.

Ben Cowan crawled to Recalde, got his left arm under the Mexican's shoulders, and pulled him close behind the rocks. Then he clutched at slabs of rock and took them to build quickly a low, crude barricade around them. He reloaded his pistol, and got his rifle.